A new tourist season in Kenya is just around the corner. I, on the other hand, am on the verge of a nervous breakdown, ready to leave without saying goodbye.
Because every year the merry-go-round of recommendations, sermons and “please, don't touch anything, don't take anything home, don't kill anything” starts all over again, aimed at an audience that, more often than not, has a listening capacity comparable to that of a dried coconut.
And you are doing very well – indeed, extremely well – to send me photos of Italian bad behaviour in Watamu and Malindi: tourists with the self-preservation instinct of a discount mozzarella, arrogant beach boys suddenly graduating in marine biology on TikTok, authorities peeking at the scene with an air of 'oh well, if they really have to..." or who, if they can, take advantage of it just to make a little money.
Africa teaches patience, they say. I, however, am beginning to lose more than just my hair.
Let's take the fashion that pisses me off the most, the usual summer fetish in Watamu: starfish. I've been repeating this endlessly since 2008: they are not toys, they are not ornaments, they are not souvenirs to put next to your Venetian gondola.
They are living organisms. And fragile. So fragile that just taking them out of the water long enough to take a selfie, long enough to say, “Look what I found, darling!”, long enough to post an Instagram story with a glitter effect, is enough to cause them lethal stress.
This is not a figure of speech: literally stress. These creatures do not breathe like we do, they do not have lungs, they do not have gills that can be moved around on the beach. They have an internal hydraulic system, a very delicate chemical balance. Exposure to air interrupts their breathing, alters their internal pressure, and causes irreversible damage in a matter of minutes. Not to mention the bacteria we introduce by touching them with hands that, half an hour earlier, were holding warm beers, mobile phones, petroleum-based sunscreen and, in the worst cases, meat samosas.
And here one might say, “Well, the beach boy doesn't know...”. And that's plausible. How can you blame someone for an environmental crime when they have never received environmental education, when they have to earn a living, when they think that making tourists happy means pulling anything that moves – or no longer moves – out of the ocean?
The problem, however, is that our fellow countrymen are often worse. Because they have the tools. They have the internet. They have buckets of information. Social networks are installed directly in their colons. They even “Google” their mothers. But when it comes to respect for the environment, nothing: they revert to the larval stage of evolution (which, at the very least, should be preserved...).
And so, as Dr Frankenstein said in Mel Brooks' glorious parody, who, swapping the brain of a beach boy with that of the average tourist in Watamu, would not see much difference: 'IT CAN BE DONE!
And so, I appeal to you, residents or long-term tourists, those who live here for at least a minimum amount of time and who still have sensitivity and patience: try to collect signatures. Take them to the Kenya Wildlife Service. Or, even better, start a campaign. I will immediately provide the megaphone, the pen, the visibility and even what little courage I have left.
We can make beach signs, like the ones we created together years ago for turtles and corals in Malindi. We can explain with clear, understandable, unambiguous images that starfish left where they were live, but when touched by us, they die. We can involve hotels, businesses, and associations that care about Watamu and its ecosystems.
We just need to get started. A signature, a sign, a donation, word of mouth. Because if we wait for the spontaneous awareness of the average tourist, we risk the hermit crabs evolving before they do.
I'm in. Give it a try and let me know. Because my patience is at an end... but hope is not yet gone for a swim.